Unpredictable
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Teresa Lisbon is tired of being predictable. My tag for 6x20. Rated M for sex.


_**Unpredictable**_

No woman liked to be called predictable, even if it was true. Teresa Lisbon knew it was true. She always did the right thing, the sensible thing. You learned to take the safe and easy path when you were responsible for three young lives, when you watched the adult in your life self-destruct from poor choices and no self-control. By now she was programmed to think that way.

It shouldn't have stung when Jane told her she was predictable, but it did. Jane was wild and out of control, and sometimes he scared her. Sometimes she was scared for him, other times of him. It never quite left her mind that Jane was in fact, a stone cold killer. The truth was, she was too.

When Marcus had supported Jane during his indictment, when he'd implied that Jane did what any good father or husband would do, she felt herself get a little cold and clammy because it was untrue. She'd seen plenty of grieving widowers and fathers who never raised a hand in violence. In truth, she suspected that if Marcus's wife and baby girl had been snatched from him, he would grieve, profoundly and deeply, but he would not launch himself on a ten year expedition for vengeance.

He would do the practical thing, the normal thing, and heal.

She loved him a little bit less for that, even though it was incredibly unfair.

That's why she was sitting alone in her living room, having canceled their date—having canceled all their dates, drinking a glass of Scotch, and thinking.

She was tired of being predictable.

She needed to _know_. She needed to know why Jane showed up with cannoli at ten at night, and why his eyes were wet when he told her wanted her happiness above all else. She needed to know if she was really just a cherished friend or if sometimes at night, he too lay awake thinking of her.

How many nights had she rolled onto her stomach, hand beneath her, imaging his soft curls and crinkled grin? It was embarrassing. She didn't like to think about it.

Jane would never tell her how he truly felt, even if he knew. He was cagey, he needed the upper hand. She suspected if she asked him outright he would imply he loved her, but never say it, never allow himself to be caught by it. She'd spend her life living in Austin, uncertain of his feelings, being strung along.

And she couldn't in fairness to Marcus make an honest decision until she knew about Jane. There was just no way.

She was tired of being predictable. That was why she was sitting alone, waiting for Jane and drinking Scotch, wearing her very best midnight blue bra and panty set under comfortable sweats. She'd texted him thirty minutes earlier. Asked him to come over and talk.

There was every chance he wouldn't show. He didn't talk to talk, unless he was the one asking the probing questions.

She jumped, startled, when he knocked.

"Come in," she shouted, feeling too shaky to stand and open the door. She was queasy and it wasn't from the liquor.

_She had to know._

He poked his head in the door, took in the sight of her curled up on the sofa. "Lisbon? Is everything okay?"

It was his soft voice. Either he was genuinely concerned or he wanted her to think he was.

"Come in," she said again, quieter.

He shut the door behind him and wandered into her living room, shoving his hands in his pants pockets.

She patted the couch next to her, and he sat down, a respectable distance away. "Everything okay?" he asked again.

He was concerned. There were more lines on his face than she remembered, and he looked wrinkled, sleepless.

"I've been thinking," she said, sipping her Scotch.

"I can see that," he replied, noting the mostly empty glass.

"And I can't go to DC without resolving some things."

Now his shields went up. She saw the way his face closed down, became carefully neutral. There was a different glitter in his eyes. She wanted to tell him to knock it off.

"Jane, do you want me to stay?" she asked softly, turning to face him.

"Of course I do Lisbon," he said. "You're my best friend."

"You said you wanted me to be happy," she replied, setting her glass on the table. Her hair fell over her shoulder. "What did you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said," he replied. "I want your happiness most of all."

"Even if it's with Pike?" she asked.

"Even if it's with Pike," he said evenly. "He's a good man. He'll be good to you."

She closed eyes for a moment. "You weren't good to me were you?" she asked.

When she opened them he looked distinctly uncomfortable, like he wanted to crawl away when she wasn't looking. He might.

"I have to know," she said steadily, standing up. "I have to know if you ever felt the way about me I feel about you. And I think if I ask you're going to lie because you think Marcus is better for me."

She felt a little unsteady as she moved to stand in front of him. "You're probably right too, but I need to know."

He settled back against the couch, moving away from her, looking to the side, his jaw working as he tried to come up with the right words to say.

"Look at me," she said.

He turned his head, and she moved swiftly, pulling the sweatshirt over her head and dropping it on the floor. She pulled the drawstring on her pants and let them slip to the floor, kicked them to the side. She stood there in a demi bra edged with lace and panties that left very little to the imagination.

Her heart pounded, only partially because she expected to be completely humiliated in thirty seconds.

Jane looked at her, and she knew then.

She expected to see his eyes light up in appreciation—he was a human male, he would probably appreciate a pair of breasts even if they were hers—and he'd certainly given her a few affectionate glances over the years. She expected him to say something about her being drunk (she wasn't) and leave in a gentlemanly way.

Instead his face went taught, his pupils dilating, his gaze dark and hot. She saw the pulse flicker in his throat and his breathing speed up. A feeling of elation spread through her, of gratification, of relief.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice tight.

"I needed to know if you wanted me like I want you," she said quietly.

"You're a beautiful woman, any man would want you," he said softly, gently.

She smiled. "You don't just want me, you _want_ me. You think I don't know the difference?"

He was looking at her like he wanted to push her onto the floor and bend her legs and… She imagined lace ripping and teeth at her neck and she shivered.

"So this little experiment of yours," he said, his voice gravelly, "what now?"

"Up to you," she replied, shifting her weight. She was a little cold. "I'm obviously offering."

He looked up at her face, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. "What?" he asked. "You're offering what? Sex? To stay here with me? Or did you just want to see how much it's going to hurt when you leave?"

She stepped forward, between his legs. "I'm offering you everything," she said. "And for the record, you're an idiot."

He sighed. "I know." He looked at her stomach, flat and white, directly in front of him.

"Are you going to say something chivalrous and devastating and leave?" she asked softly.

His hands went to her waist, his skin hot. He looked up at her, the look he gave when he thought she said something incredibly naive. Then he pressed a hot kiss to her stomach and she sucked in a breath.

"I'm maybe not ready for everything," he said against her skin.

"Okay." Her hands went to his curls. "Are you ready for just tonight then? To start with?"

He answered by licking along her ribs, nipping her just below a breast. He pulled her closer, his hands spanning her back, and kissed the swell of her breast, his nose rubbing the skin there. "You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice was soft, reverent.

Just the sound of his voice like that…the barest touch of his hands, and she was ready, now.

"Let's go to bed," she whispered.

Instead he sank to his knees on the floor in front of her and kissed the edge of her panties, running his tongue around the lace edge. His hands were shaking as they stroked her thighs. She was shaking too.

His index finger traced the cleft of her sex, where it was visible due to the damp lace clinging to her skin. "You're so wet for me already," he murmured, pure masculine delight in his voice, tinged with awe.

She shivered, flushed. She was already aroused to the point where it should have been embarrassing. Her body was begging for him. Her underwear was damp and her nipples were hard. The wool of his pants scratched against her legs where they brushed her knees.

He stroked her again and her breath came out in a sharp pant. Rolling his eyes up to look at her, he leaned forward very deliberately and ran the pink tip of his tongue where his finger had just been. The heat of his breath rolled over her. It was barely a touch at all, and it went straight through her.

She made a sound in the back of her throat and clenched her hands beside her thighs.

He leaned back and pulled off his jacket, tossing it on the floor. Then he very slowly slipped his fingers under the sides of her panties at her hips and pulled them down her legs.

Cool air hit the wetness of her skin and she shuddered, biting her lip.

"Lie down," he said.

"Bedroom is twenty feet away," she whispered.

"Lie down," he said again.

She did, pulling him on top of her, the wool of his coat at her back. He kissed her then, for the first time ever. It was dark and wet and every touch of his tongue pulled on the nerves low in her belly. He tasted like tea and sleepless nights and smelled a little of leather and the dusty attic at the CBI. Or that was her imagination.

It didn't matter. His body was hot against her, chest pressed to hers, mouth making love to hers, her neck, her shoulder, tongue tracing the beauty spot at the hollow of her throat.

When he sat back, she reached for him, but he pulled away, tucked his hands behind her knees and raised them. He kissed the side of her knee, her thigh, his eyes never leaving hers. His gaze was all dark promises, a secret smile crinkling the edges.

When his tongue found her, she arched back and gasped. He nibbled, nipped, tasted, never enough pressure, never right where she wanted him. She bit her lip, swallowed a groan. She'd always assumed he'd be so intuitive, he'd know exactly where…

Then he drew her clit into his mouth, sucked it, rolled it hard it with his tongue while his fingers entered her, tugging downward, stretching her open.

Her hips rolled up, stomach tightening as an orgasm rocked her. She convulsed around his fingers, heels scudding against the carpet, little tongues of flame licking down the back of her legs.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, oh, oh."

She rode it out, her head lolling to the side. He rocked his hand in rhythm with her hips, his tongue gentling on her now overly-sensitive clit. He hummed in appreciation and the sound, the vibration sent her over the edge a second time.

When she was slack and panting, he sat up, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Was that was you wanted?" he all but purred.

She blinked, her brain still foggy and drugged.

He slipped his fingers back into her, stroking her, gently, affectionately.

Something inside her felt cold, but her body stayed warm, loose, on the edge. "I wasn't…" she couldn't think when he was touching her like this. "This wasn't just about sex…"

He curled his fingers upward and she moaned, head falling back. "I was afraid you would…" It was hard to speak.

"What?" he asked smugly.

She swallowed a keening sound. "F-fake it with me," she gasped. "The way you did with Lorelei. So I wouldn't go."

His hand stilled, his whole body became rigid, his face falling. "I wouldn't do that to you, Teresa," he said.

She felt tears rolling down her temples into her hair, partly out of physical frustration, partly out of being emotionally overwhelmed. "I had to know if you could love me," she said, closing her eyes. "I love you, Patrick. I want you. I had to know if you could feel that way about me someday."

He moved so quickly it startled her, lips pressing against hers, then her eyelids, temples, cheeks. His hands fumbled with her bra and she helped him, moaning with pleasure when he pulled her nipple into his mouth.

He stopped just long enough to say, "Say it again," before moving on to the other breast.

"I love you, Patrick," she said breathlessly, gasping as his fingers found her again, his tongue laving the tight peak of one breast.

He moved to whisper against her temple, "I love you."

Of course it took her nearly finding Prince Charming for him to figure that out, but she swallowed her bitterness. Instead she started tugging at his shirt. Buttons popped off. She heard a seam rip as he pulled it off.

She let him unbuckle his pants, go through the awkward shuffle of stripping bare.

Seeing his naked body for the first time was a little shocking. The suits were as much a part of Jane as his skin. Seeing him naked, surprisingly toned, noting the hair on his thighs, the scar on his ribs, it made him seem so human suddenly.

And then there was his erection. She grasped him in her hand, squeezing, delighting in the groan that tore from his throat. She ran her thumb around the head, eyeing him wickedly. "For twelve years you've been acting like a eunuch. I wasn't sure you had one of these," she said.

He gave her a dry look. "Because I exhibited self control?" he leaned forward and pressed a hot kiss to her mouth. "I promise you that's been put to good use, thinking about you."

She flushed, the image of him touching himself late at night, just as she had, making her skin heat.

"Thinking of all that dark, cinnamon hair," he murmured into her ear, his knees nudging her legs apart. "Of the way you pout when you're irritated."

She held her breath when the head of his cock nudged at her, probing. He took himself in hand, guided himself to her. She bent her knees, pulling her legs back and wrapping her arms around his neck.

She looked into his eyes when he pushed inside, holding her breath. She was tight, already clenching with another orgasm, and it took a few moments for him to settle inside of her. Then he was impossibly deep, and her legs were trembling again, and that ache was building up in her lower belly.

His expression was one of bliss and pain co-mingled. His lips hovered just above hers. Then he pulled out and stroked back inside her, and that was all it took. That sweet feeling of release spread over her body and she arched up into him, instinctively seeking more, riding her orgasm into another, until she lost the ability to tell them apart, and his hands were under her, tilting her hips up.

She came down, breathing hard, body slick with sweat, and kissed his neck even as his thrusting became more erratic, more violent. She hadn't expected him to last long after his decade of celibacy, but he outpaced her, hands bruising her hips.

"I'm here," she said against his ear and she smiled when she felt him convulse inside of her, his hips jerking forward a few more times.

He laid in her arms, still inside her, head cradled against her neck. They were sweaty and damp and the living room smelled of sex. She felt sore, swollen, over sensitized, wonderful.

After a few moments he slid out of her with a groan, shifting down her body to rest his head on her breasts. "I really do love you," he said.

"I know," she whispered.

"So was the sex sufficiently mind-blowing to convince you to stay?" he asked.

She pretended that she didn't hear the tremor in his voice.

"I was staying anyway," she said. "I broke up with Marcus. I think the sex is karma for putting up with all your crap."

He kissed the space between her breasts, nuzzled her there. "I owe you lots of orgasms."

She stroked his hair. "Can we go to bed now, _please_? My back hurts."

He groaned, but stood up, pulling her up along with him. He surprised her by lifting her into his arms, carrying her down the hall.

"I hope you know I'm spending the night," he informed her. "I like to be cuddled after."

"You're an idiot," she re-iterated, smiling against his chest.

"I know," he said.

And then he took her to bed.


End file.
